Void
by Addled-Impasse
Summary: The pool didn't go exactly how he'd planned... angst and character death.


characters do not belong to me, just playing around. this is probably OOC but i was craving angst, and i wanted more jim/seb. so i wrote this.

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><p>The explosion at the pool was, he'd admit, bigger hen he'd wanted. But he'd still managed to escape with only cuts and scrapes, nothing too serious. He had gotten out as soon as he could, went back to his flat. He didn't wanna be anywhere near there when the police showed. And they would.<p>

So he waited, mostly for Seb, he'd been there as well. He'd never let just anyone handle targeting Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

It was several hours later, when two of the other snipers he'd hired ended up in his office.

He looked at them. They refused to meet his eyes. "where is he." it was more of a statement hen a question.

Neither said anything. Just awkward shuffling and mumbles.

"Where is Sebastian?" he asked, nearly growling.

One of the nameless snipers finally spoke up, "he... he got trapped, in the explosion... Th..the roof caved in..."

"and why aren't you still there getting him out?" he said, trying to keep his voice even. But not totally succeeding.

"we tried, but the police showed..." the quivering man took a breath, " and he didn't even have a pulse..."

_No. No. No._

The chant started in his head. _Seb can't be..._He felt like he was going to be sick, and his heart, oh his heart hurt, like it was going to burst from his chest at any second.

He wouldn't lose it. They might be wrong.

"Get out. Now." he yelled, slamming his fist on the desk, as soon as they had gone he turned to the computer.

Pulling up a browser he went to the hospitals site, within a few clicks and keystrokes he was in their main system. It was a few hours after the blast. Anyone found would have been at a hospital by now.

He scrolled thru the ambulance logs, looking for any John Does. He paled when he found the only one. Reading across checking the description. Maybe it wasn't him. But the description fit. The next letters put a knife in his chest.

DOA

_Dead On Arrival._

He clicked on the name, read the notes.

Buried under rubble after apparent explosion. Extracted, CPR performed approx. 5 minutes, no response. pronounced dead at 0400 hours. Death caused by crushing force.

He sat, staring at the screen, he wasn't sure his long. Minutes. Hours. Days. But when he finally came back to himself, he was crying.

The near overwhelming sadness was quickly overcome with anger. Anger that went right to his core. He jumped from his chair, and pushed the computer monitor to the floor. Swept everything off his desk.

Then he was in the kitchen, without even realizing. Glasses and plates crashed on the floor, splintering into shards that dig into his feet. They might have cut, but he didn't care. Somehow he ended up on the living room. He was about to to take the fire poker to the TV when he saw it. It was just sitting there. A simple shirt. Nothing special, just a black cotton tee. Tossed over the arm of the couch.

The metal poker dropped to the ground with a clatter, and his breath hitched in his chest. Slowly he walked to the couch, reaching out, fingers grazing the worn fabric, almost afraid to touch it.

He'd tossed it there this morning.

He sank to his knees, his fingers grasping the shirt. The pain he felt in his chest, he was sure it was his heart literally breaking. He closed his eyes, soft cloth in his hands, sure that he can feel the pieces falling, hitting the bottom of his stomach with tiny clinks.

He looked down at the shirt, eyes blurred once again by tears. With shaking hands, he lifted the shirt, burying his face in it. He inhaled deeply, the scent so intensely Seb, that for a moment he forgets his to keep breathing. When he finally let that breath go, it's a shuddering sob.

How soon before the smell is gone forever from the flat?

He'd never be able to come home, find Seb napping on the couch, and lay right on top of him, just listen to his heartbeat.

His heart.

He almost laughed at the word. He'd told Sherlock homes he'd burn the heart out of him mere hours ago...

It was an accurate description of how he felt.

Soon the sobs started to lessen, he leaned against the couch arms fallen limply in his lap, Sebs shirt still clutched in his hands.

He was alone. Again.

He had been before. But this was different.

There was a void now, where something had been.

And he as sure nothing would ever be able to fill it.


End file.
